Running on Empty
by StellenJane
Summary: Tag to 2.13 - My protest that the episode finished where it did.


Running on Empty

By: StellenJane

(Tag to 2.13, because they just shouldn't have finished the episode there...)

He sat there awhile, looking at the woman slumped in her chair before him. Her hand now slack in death, fingers still entwined in his. It was the most still he'd ever seen Mags Bennett and for a moment he was that young boy again, so terrified of her. There was something about her that had always demanded respect at any age, and even as a grown man he had to consciously remind himself he was a lawman, and she the criminal. He rested, not wanting to rise and turn his attention to the ever increasing burn in his side. Through and through be damned, it hurt like a bitch.

He closed his eyes and wished he had a free hand to rub over his face, to ease the ache in his head from the beating he'd taken hours before. Moving though wasn't an option anymore. He wasn't sure when his right arm had seized, but he was fairly certain he couldn't have let Mags hand go if he tried, and his left had long since cramped clutching the bloody cloth of his shirt. Yep, moving was going to be a bitch. Better to sit a while longer.

Raylan had never been one to ask for help, nor to look weak and helpless, something Aunt Helen had taught him to counter his fathers' jibes. "Never show him he's gotten to you, plenty of time to care for your wounded pride when the day is done. Let him know he's gotten to you and he'll push that button forever, it's just in his makin'." And so it was in the sons making, not to make a big deal of being hurt or injured, take care of things privately. So sat he did, until the voices came to him, getting louder, more urgent. So was the throb in his temple and with some concentration he'd found a rhythm between that and the throbbing burn of his wounded side.

To his surprise, he felt the hand on his shoulder before he'd heard the approach, but truth be told he was past being vigilant. The eyes in the back of his head he was always accused of having were now firmly shut, and his God given ones were too tired to raise their lids.

"Raylan, can ya hear me son?"

He pushed his eyes open and the room seemed flood-lit since the last time he'd glimpsed it. The blurry shape of his boss crossed his vision. Bile bit at the back of his throat, the light painful.

"That's it son, just stay with me now… no, no, don't go closin' those eyes on me now, ya hear?"

Arts voice had never sounded quite so compassionate. Idly he waited for the chewing out he was sure to get for letting Mags die of her own hand rather than arresting her straight away, getting her safely to the lock-up. Maybe the chewing out would come later, right now the voice kept searching him out through the closing darkness.

"Raylan, you can let her go now."

There was more people now, one of them bumped him and Mags cooling hand fell with a thump to the table, taking his with it. His forearm screamed at him in protest.

The voices and hands were starting to become more than annoying.

"She…" he managed, then the pain exploded in his head as he was eased back in his chair.

"Shit, Art!" he panted.

"Now hold on there son, the medics gotta check you out and get your side squared away. I have no doubt you know the drill so you just let them do their job now."

He didn't see his boss readying with the medics on the count of three to move him to the floor to the waiting gurney. The move came suddenly, the room skewed and his balance told him he was falling.

"We got you Raylan, just relax and let us do our job now, yours is done for today."

The rise in bile took him by surprise and as the first wave of nausea hit those same hands had him turning to heave what little was still in his stomach. The moonshine he'd gulped minutes before burned almost worse coming up than it did going down, and he gagged. He jerked as fingers were thrust into his mouth, feeling for God knows what and he gagged again, unable to take a breath. Then they were gone, something cool wiped his mouth surprising him at how hot he felt, then the claustrophobic pressing of an oxygen mask on his face bought cool air in a rush. He was still trying to formulate a belated reply when the pain ripped through him again, reaching its' crescendo. As the white light exploded like fireworks behind his eyes, the cool darkness closed in completely.

Art saw his deputy pass out and let out a deep breath.

"OK, you got him now?"

"We need to travel now" the lead medic stated simply.

"He's in shock, lost a lot of blood and there's a good chance he's got whatever killed Mags Bennett in his system, he's crashed too fast."

Art nodded grimly, pushing up from his position on the floor. He'd not been paying too much attention to Mags Bennett at that stage, but the blue tinge around her lips and the drying remnants of something bubbled on her lips kicked him back into the now. The coroner was already present and as he pointed at the glasses and jar of moonshine before him, he was answered.

"We got this. Go."

It was all he needed to hear. Nods were exchanged which communicated more than a hundred words, then he was in his car heading back to the hospital behind the ambulance. Halfway there, the ambulance lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree, lights and sirens blaring, and he had to put his foot down hard just to keep the fleeing vehicle in sight.

Shit.

—


End file.
